


See Through Me

by Ace of Smut (AceOfShipping)



Category: 19th Century CE RPF, Classical Music RPF, Composers - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-04-25 03:58:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14370420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceOfShipping/pseuds/Ace%20of%20Smut
Summary: Liszt can't stop bringing young women home, and Chopin has had it with his frivolity. But is it really the ladies that bother Chopin, or is it the man himself...?Chopin just wants Liszt to see through him, and at the same time he can't help but fear for what will happen if he does.Historically, Liszt and Chopin did share a flat at one point, and they do so in this fic.





	1. See Through Me Under the Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated with the greatest love to Selena, who convinced me to come out of hiatus. Not that it took that much convincing.

She was loud, this one, much too loud for his tastes. It was always hard to ignore when Franz had a woman over, especially since their flat wasn’t that big, but usually he could block it out. Lately, it had become so much more difficult, and it wasn’t as though he didn’t know why.

Frédéric Chopin knew himself well enough. And perhaps that was why he found this so endlessly frustrating; because he felt it gnaw every damn time, every second of every minute of every hour that Franz spent with his harem of one-night-stands, it pained him. His fingers held the pen so tightly, they shook, and the knuckles on the hand that grasped the edge of the piano were white. His breathing was shallow and almost pained, his body tense as he heard her, through three sets of walls, reach her finale.

A half-hour or so later, she left, and the door was locked after her. He was out too, it would seem. So long as he left Frédéric alone –

The door to the drawing room, where he sat, idle and tense, by the piano, opened with a creak, and Frédéric’s face twisted in a terrible frown. He stood, his back turned to the Hungarian, and tried his best to not let Franz see. It would be best for the both of them if he did not see.

“Can’t write?” Franz’ voice was slightly airy, he sounded like a man who had only just caught his breath, and the corners of Frédéric’s lips curled down a little further. He didn’t answer.

Trying to keep himself in check, he slowly turned his head, but he should never have done that. Franz was haphazardly dressed, he was just wearing trousers and a loose, white shirt, and, God damn it, his hair was such a wonderful mess. Immediately, Frédéric turned his face away. He covered his mouth, a bitter taste on the back of his tongue, and a sinking suspicion that he might just want to burst into tears of anger and frustration. Something he knew he had to avoid at all costs.

“Frédéric?” Franz’ voice bore all the marks of a confused man. How could he not see? Wasn’t it obvious from the way Frédéric blushed with anger? “You aren’t sick, are you?”

Why hadn’t he moved out a long time ago? Frédéric knew why, of course, but knowing didn’t necessitate wanting to face it. “No, I’m not sick.” He tried not sounding bitter. He really did. He also failed at it.  
“Then what…?” Franz had come up close in an unguarded moment, and when he placed one of those long, slim hands on Frédéric’s shoulder, it was too much.

Abruptly, the Pole turned and shoved him away, knocking the inkwell to the floor in the process. It shattered in a thousand pieces of crystal glass, and he completely disregarded it. “Can’t you go somewhere else?! You and all those whores you bring home, every night by now, isn’t it? Have you no thought for other people at all – you are… you…” He took a deep breath and then hissed it out through his teeth, “You are a fiend, Franz Liszt, and I want nothing to do with you.”

Leaving his flatmate confused and a little shocked, Frédéric stormed away.

“Wait! Frédé-“

“Spierdalaj!” Rarely did Frédéric use such words, but he couldn’t help himself, as he slammed the door to his own, tiny bedroom behind himself. Peace. That was what he needed, peace and a moment to compose himself. Knowing that he would have to face Franz Liszt when he, eventually, walked out of that door.

Frédéric Chopin did not get much more than a moment, before there was a gentle knocking on the door, surprisingly gentle for the man he knew was asking for entry. Choosing not to answer, neither inviting him in, nor rejecting him, Frédéric wasn’t exactly surprised when the Hungarian stepped in. Franz closed the door behind himself with the same uncharacteristic gentleness, looking down at the man sitting on the bed, looking every bit a defeated being.

“I’m sorry.” He began, not sure how to handle such an evidently delicate matter, “I didn’t know it affected you so much, I’ll try to take it elsewhere from now.”

“That’s not the issue.” Frédéric could’ve beaten himself silly for saying that, but at this moment he couldn’t stop it. He felt strangely numb, his pretences slipping through his fingers.

“No?” Franz sat beside him, and reached out, placing what was undoubtedly supposed to be a reassuring hand on the Pole’s knee. It had the opposite effect. Frédéric gasped and pushed it away.

“No, don’t touch me.”

“So I’m the problem?”  
Why did he have to be so sharp and attentive all of a sudden? Why did he have to gently place his hand on Frédéric’s, bringing that unwanted blush to his cheeks?

“Why, Chopin úr, I did not know you were thus inclined.” He was teasing now, and Frédéric abruptly stood up, trying to distance himself as much as the small space allowed.

“I am not.”

Franz stood with him, and it got so much worse when he stepped close, and placed an arm around Frédéric’s waist, testing the waters, “You’re lying. I know you, I can tell. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Say? To you?! You must be mad.” Frédéric turned around, and had to take a moment to catch his breath. Franz didn’t move, and suddenly it was as though the Hungarian was holding him, he was so, so close. “You, with your head full of women, full of noise, no. You were busy elsewhere, and besides…”

“Besides what? You were afraid, weren’t you.” With good reason. Many would have condemned such desires, but not Franz. “You needn’t be. I am fully as capable of caring as much for a man, as I am of caring for a woman.”

What he’d expected to hear, Frédéric wasn’t actually sure, but it wasn’t this. His expression softened, turning from tense to merely worried, a strange sense of longing blossoming in his chest. Oh, they were so close, and Franz was saying those words, and perhaps they could just… just this once?

Before he knew it, Franz had caught that look in his eyes, and, as always, he was one to act. In a breathless moment, he leaned forward, cupping Frédéric’s cheek, and then the Pole found himself suddenly being very gently kissed. His eyes closed, and he drew a sharp intake of breath, his hand slipping up along Franz’ side, grasping the shirt on his back and pulling him closer. The kiss was deepened, and by mutual effort it grew wilder, impatient, even. It was Franz who was leading the way, but Frédéric was an eager follower, pushing them both onwards, until their hands began to wander. In a flurry of movement, they were on the bed, and Franz’ weight was pushing him into the mattress, and it was all so, so much.

This was Franz Liszt holding him, and deep down there was a gnawing worry that this would be nothing more than another liaison to the Hungarian, but the worry was too deep to be much more than a brief flutter now, and the onslaught continued. He relished Franz’ hands on him, barely even registered how they stripped him bare, just adored the fact that he could feel the man’s bare skin against his own.

It all just seemed to… happen. Before he knew it, he had a man between his legs, his breath hitching as Franz’ fingers curled inside, finding the nerve they’d been searching for, and he let out a whimper, trying and failing to remain dignified in the face of this heat, this sharp pleasure. When Franz took him, he lost the last remnants of control, not a sound could be held back, he clung to the man, urging him deeper, wanting more. The Hungarian found a particularly delicious angle, and Frédéric’s nails clawed at his back, leaving red lines to be apologised for later. He only went quiet when he crashed over the edge, holding Franz so tight, it was bound to hurt the man. But he followed, and Frédéric felt a rush of warmth from him, something he was distinctly unfamiliar with.

They lay beside each other, for a moment panting as they came down from the experience. Recovering his wits, the Pole tensed, fully expecting Franz to just… get up. And walk away.

It didn’t happen. The man beside him looked up with soft, dark eyes, and moved closer, wrapping an arm and a leg around Frédéric and clinging to him, almost childishly so. With pleasant surprise, Frédéric found himself smiling softly down at him. Still…

“Will there be… others?”

“Hm?” Reluctantly, Franz opened his eyes, “Women, you mean? No, I shouldn’t think so. I have a feeling I won’t really be needing them.”

“… and men?”

“I never was much for men, generally. Just you.” The Hungarian yawned and nuzzled closer, his face softly pressed against Frédéric’s neck, “Now, if you’d be so kind as to shut up, so I can get a little rest, I think I shall be good to go again in a few minutes.”

The Pole scoffed at that, though to be honest… well, he wasn’t entirely displeased at the prospect, “You are such a whore, Franz Liszt.”

Franz just smiled and closed his eyes. He never could deny that.


	2. On A Summer's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See through me under the stars  
> On a hot summer's day  
> ...

It was unbearably hot, the sun was ruthlessly baking down on the city, and even with their shutters open wide there was hardly a breeze to be caught. The heat was sweltering, and Frédéric was absolutely melting, even as he just lay there, stark naked, on top of the sheets on the bed he shared with Franz, and did nothing.

Well, that was mostly because Franz was the one putting in the effort. It was slow and loving, but even so the heat of arousal and of the Hungarian pressed against him, made him almost overheat. It was good, but maybe just this one time, quick would be preferable to slow.

“Will you – ah! – will you get to finishing?” The rapidly melting Pole grumbled, but had to relinquish on his grumpy attitude when Franz skillfully brushed against his prostate, and Frédéric moaned shamelessly. The Hungarian knew him too well, by now he knew every damn part of him too well, and Franz had mastered the art of playing him like an instrument. Though his hands were always more delicate with Frédéric, than they were with the pianos.

The Hungarian’s movements didn’t falter, but neither did they speed up, and when Frédéric looked over his shoulder, he caught Franz’ little grin, and the absolutely sultry look in his eyes. “Do you want me to?” Franz asked him.

Frédéric’s head snapped back to just staring intently forward at the wall, while his cheeks blushed with a ferocity like they wanted him to get embarrassed. But then, there was a reason Franz had asked.

“… Yes.”

The effect was immediate. Franz’ hands grasped Frédéric’s thighs tightly for leverage, and the arousal curled sharply in Frédéric’s stomach in anticipation for what came a moment later, when Franz’ movements grew harsh, quick, and erratic. Once in a while, just once in a while, the Pole liked to be treated the same way that Franz treated the pianos. Hard, rough, and harsh.

“Kurwa!” He let out a strained sound, trying to keep from outright screaming with the sharp pleasure, “Why do you have to be so good at – hah, oh Franz, Franz, nie przestawaj.”

“I am – mhmm – so pleased you like it.”

“Shut up and… o, o Boże!” Frédéric went utterly silent and spasmed around Franz, reaching back and grasping at the back of his thigh to get him closer. And then, for a long, glorious moment, he could forget the heat, forget the fact that they were sticky with sweat, and soon with something else, and just feel the sharp pleasure rush through him as Franz brought him over the edge.

Franz came with him, a few heartbeats later, and for a few long moments they just lay there, limbs entangled, catching their breaths. The Frédéric grumbled and pushed away the arm that had been draped over him. “It’s too hot for this. How can you even want to do such a thing in this heat?”

“I always want you.” Franz purred behind him, nuzzling close with his long, elegant nose tickling the nape of Frédéric’s neck. Then, to the Pole’s great shock, Franz’ tongue peeked out to taste the saltiness of his partner’s skin.

“Don’t do that! I’m disgusting.”

“You are absolutely ravishing, my little grasshopper.”

“Stop talking nonsense and get out of me.” Frédéric grumbled, not unused to Franz’ endearments and loving words, but also not yet comfortable enough with being spoken to like that to take them in stride.

“You know I like to stay just like this, and feel you –“’

“It’s too hot for this. Either you get out or I castrate you with my teeth.”

With a dissatisfied grumble, Franz finally did as he was ordered to, and slipped out of his lover. He did not, however, leave the bed. Instead he laid on his back, with his hands behind his head and his legs slightly spread, and sighed with satisfaction.

Frédéric shot one glance at him and rolled his eyes, “Jesteś idiotą. Do you have to be so smug?”

“It is my nature. You know you love it, drágám.”

At that Frédéric just huffed, turned onto his side and draped an arm over the lazy Hungarian, cuddling up to him, and running his fingers through the coarse hair on his chest. It kept fascinating him, just how different they were, in almost all areas there was at least a subtle little change. Liszt was a lot of man to handle, in every department. Sometimes excessively so.

“I thought you found it too hot for these things?” Liszt purred.

The Pole just shook his head, and then laid it against the Hungarians chest, “Too hot to have sex, not too hot to sleep. Now if you’d shut up and let me do that, I’d be much obliged.”

“Ask nicely.”

“Zamknij się, idiotą.”

“That’ll do.”

A moment later, “… grasshopper?”

“Mmmmrrrr?”

“Do you love me?”

Frédéric huffed, “What sort of question is that? Would I let you in my bed if I didn’t?”

“Techincally…” Franz shifted a little closer, “This is my bed.”

“What’s yours is mine, isn’t that what people say?” Frédéric grumbled something unintelligible and pressed himself closer to Franz in turn, “Can I sleep no-“

“Yes, but we’re not married, so it doesn’t really apply, does it?”

With a groan, Frédéric let go of Franz and turned onto his back, “We sleep in the same bed, we practice on the same piano – by the way, we do need another one, you’re always hogging it – and our clothes are mixed together beyond recognition. Does it matter what a priest has and has not mumbled over our bowed heads?”

“I don’t hog the piano.” Franz protested somewhat weakly.

“Yes, yes you do. Now shut up and let me sleep.”

“... oh fine.”

“Alright?”

“Alright.”

“I love you.”

“I love me too.”

“… oh shut up Franz. Go fuck your ego.”

“Nah, I’ll wait until I can –“

“Finish that sentence and I will end you.”

“… I love you too, grasshopper.”

“Wise answer.”

**Author's Note:**

> Spierdalaj, for those of you who hadn't guessed, means 'fuck off' in Polish. So Fryd swears in this one~


End file.
